


penitence.

by foundCarcosa



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age II
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-28
Updated: 2013-02-28
Packaged: 2017-12-03 22:03:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/703108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foundCarcosa/pseuds/foundCarcosa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A self-indulgent exploration of the ancient pious practice of self-flagellation. Who better to demonstrate than our Choir Boy?</p>
            </blockquote>





	penitence.

The bow goes first, carefully unstrapped and hung upon its rack with the utmost gentleness. Below it is placed the quiver with its specially-fletched arrows.  
The wooden mannequin receives his cuirass and pauldrons, and he scrubs at a smudge on the edging with the pad of his thumb before placing the gauntlets on the stand beside. The mail he drapes over this stand, the rings clinking noisily; greaves on the floor; and finally the belt, folded neatly under its buckle on top of the mail shirt.

He is slower to remove his linen undershirt, his heart thudding with the anticipation this ritual stirs up.  
Finally, in thin trousers and bare feet, he approaches the small altar, glancing behind him reflexively to ensure the door to his chambers are firmly sealed. Interruption could be fatal, should his hand slip, or should he be ripped too quickly from the trance.

The tails he reaches for first are heavy elk-hide, bound with a handle that is perfectly weighted and comfortingly warm in his palm. This is the warmup ritual, the calm before the storm, and he faces the golden statue of Andraste with a whispered invocation before closing his eyes and crossing his arm over his chest.  
The tails land heavy on his shoulder blade and back, his flesh stirring under their weight. Perhaps this, this stroking of hide over flesh, is more like foreplay than he'd care to admit — his skin tingles and his breathing deepens, the muscles in his arms warming as he alternates the lazy strokes.

It is not enough, of course. There is only the slightest flush of red under his richly-hued skin, the barest shiver travelling up his curved spine. He still feels the pent rage and passion brimming just under the surface, the carnal frustration and emotional imbalance that serves to separate him from his purpose, push him out from beneath the ever-benevolent gaze of the Maker.

He must focus.  
This is his grounding ritual.

The candles flicker as if in eager anticipation as he brushes his lips over the elk-hide tails and lays them at his feet — they are only to be rehung when they are purified — before reaching for the true instrument of penitence.  
This is cowhide, astringent and unforgiving, the tails only just beginning to soften with use but no less harsh when applied. He hefts the handle in his hand and turns his glazing eyes up to the idol once more.

_“Maker, though the darkness come upon me…”_

The first strike is immediate pain, only tempered by the warming of his skin by the lash’s predecessor. His breath hitches, eyes squeezing shut, and he immediately opens them as if in guilt — he must not take his eyes from Andraste, she who burned and burned without uttering a sound.

 _“Maker, though the darkness come upon me, I shall embrace the light.”_  
The next strike is no easier, a quick blow slung over his right shoulder. He switches hands with practised dexterity and rears for the third blow.  
 _“I shall weather the storm.”_  
His eyes burn as he focuses on Andraste, her arms raised towards the heavens.  
 _“I shall endure.”_

And endure he did — _strike, switch, strike, switch_ — chanting his way through the Trials while his breath grew deeper and his words began to drag with a drugged, soporific tone. His back arced with every lash, sometimes stealing his breath with the strike’s ferocity, but he did not falter, nor did he shut his eyes again.  
He was whispering by the thirtieth lash, eyes heavy-lidded but still open, back riddled with lurid welts, arms burning with exertion. A haze settles over his eyes, and Andraste blurs, bifurcating into copies of herself before merging again.

And as the blood trickles down to the waistband of his trousers, his knees trembling so hard he can feel them knock together at intervals, he feels relief, like a cool gust of wind upon his fevered flesh.  
His head lolls back, his eyes finally drifting closed, and he thanks the Maker for His strength, the strength He grants to his wayward son in this time of need.

He allows himself to fall to his knees, grinning strangely, like a criminal finally relieved of his duty in the mines. He laughs breathlessly as the trance begins to lift, as sensation returns to his skin with prickly insistence, as the muscles of his arms tremble with the releasing of their tension.

He'd be rewarded one day, when his heart stops beating and his soul is released from its shell.  
Rewarded with the words he'd longed to hear from the moment he knew how to feel -- _"This is my son, with whom I am well-pleased..."_


End file.
